


Advanced Diplomatic Relations

by monsterbate



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Gen, Growing Up, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Season/Series 05, Roommates, The Author Regrets Everything, early life crisis, struggling with adulthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterbate/pseuds/monsterbate
Summary: Annie hiccups through another sob. She can feel her panic starting to swell again, like it had when she’d ducked out of orientation to have a minor panic attack in the bathroom. Her roommates aren’t making any sense and they’re nothelpingand she’s going to lose this job because she’s not going to be able to learn any of the ridiculous things they’re claiming are important.Troy has the crinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s either about to say something really sweet or really crazy, and Abed is nodding intentionally and intensely.(Annie Edison learns how to navigate adulthood—with a little help from her friends.)
Relationships: Annie Edison & Abed Nadir, Annie Edison & Troy Barnes, Annie Edison/Jeff Winger
Comments: 14
Kudos: 114





	Advanced Diplomatic Relations

“What’s the matter?” Troy asks, voice caught between scared and soft.

Annie knew she should have kept it together until she made it into her room, but finding Troy and Abed waiting for her with celebratory spaghetti and garlic toast is enough to make her tear up. 

“It’s nothing,” she tries, but even Abed’s looking concerned. 

“Is this—your new job isn’t what you thought it would be?” he asks, and Annie has to stifle another sob. 

“Kind of, yeah,” she says. She lifts her hands in a hopeless little shrug and lets them fall. “I thought I would be learning about pharmaceutical contracting with hospitals and clinics, but it turns out it’s just a sales job.”

“So you walked out and now you have to find another job?” Abed states it matter-of-factly, which makes another sob catch in her throat because that sort of thing only makes sense on film, where rent and groceries and utilities don’t really _matter_ unless they’re a piece of characterization and not a fact of life.

“There isn’t another job, though. That’s the problem. It took me four months to find this job, even with all the applications I sent out. But that’s not—I mean, I don’t like it, but that’s not entirely why I’m upset.” She takes in a breath and holds it for a moment. “Since it’s sales, they want to … train me, I guess? On sales techniques. And how to encourage engagement with the product. Basically they implied I’d need to—to change everything about myself in order to succeed.” 

“We did this already,” Abed says after a moment of silence. “When we met White Abed. Jeff wore shorts.” 

Annie can feel herself blushing as _both_ memories swim to the surface—Abed, gravel-voiced and suave as Don Draper and Jeff, sans shorts. Sometimes Greendale feels like an oddly echoey memory, until someone mentions something she nearly forgot.

“Remember?” Abed continues, turning to Troy. “I changed to get a girl, and you all learned a lesson about the importance of not changing, and then I changed back. Also, I learned how to play pool.”

Troy’s forehead wrinkles up. “So Annie shouldn’t change because she’s great the way she is. Except she has to change to keep her job. Except that’s _bad_ because changing yourself for other people is _bad_. Right?”

“What do they want you to change, Annie?” Abed asks. “Is it physical? Emotional? Spiritual?”

Annie stoops down to dig in her backpack and pulls out the orientation agenda, which she holds out with a sniffle. “E-Everything. How to dress, how to speak, how to introduce myself. How to partake in brand-appropriate smalltalk. How to ‘encourage attention’ for the company. There’s workshops on what to order if you’re invited to a ‘meal-based opportunity’, which I think is code for, like, a lunch meeting? But then why don’t they just call it a lunch meeting?”

Abed hands the pamphlet to Troy, who rifles through the glossy pages. “Sounds like a robust training program.”

“You know what this makes me think of?” Troy asks, voice excited. He flips a few more pages. 

“Natalia Romanova,” Abed returns, nodding. 

“Or Natalie Rushman,” Troy says. “But without the killing.”

Annie hiccups through another sob. She can feel her panic starting to swell again, like it had when she’d ducked out of orientation to have a minor panic attack in the bathroom. Her roommates aren’t making any sense and they’re not _helping_ and she’s going to lose this job because she’s not going to be able to learn any of the ridiculous things they’re claiming are important.

Troy has the crinkle between his eyebrows that means he’s either about to say something really sweet or really crazy, and Abed is nodding intentionally and intensely. 

“You should do this,” Abed says. He’s gone steady and careful. 

Troy sets the booklet down on the kitchen table. “But, like, not to change _Annie_ -Annie, cause we like Annie-Annie the way she is. Just to, y’know, learn how to be _spy-Annie_.”

“—spy what-now?” 

Abed slaps a palm down on top of the agenda. “Annie Edison, you’re being given a new mission. A new direction.”

Troy snorts. “Heh: nude erection.” 

Abed doesn’t break character. “You are being asked to infiltrate this pharmaceutical company and pose as a naive sales girl. Learn from them the skills necessary to help us in _bringing down terrorism_. If you do this, the world will thank you. You will be an asset, a weapon. A woman without weakness.”

Annie is trying not to gawk, so she looks at Troy who’s grinning at her with a big, goofy smile. “It’ll be like a game, you know? Like when we do FBI! But instead of keeping it inside the apartment, you’ll play at work. You’ll get to learn all kinds of exciting things that spies know! Disguises and undercover talk and blending in.”

“But this is real life. You guys get that, right? This job is my real life. And I can’t just— _play_ at it.”

Troy considers this. “No, but you can pretend at it, right? Like you told Abed how to pretend when he’s helping customers at his Dad’s falafel shop? Or how you showed me how to pretend when I’m talking to the super about the leaky faucet in the bathroom? It’s just another way of being an adult.”

It’s nice, hearing her long-ago advice being repeated so earnestly. Which makes her stop and think about what they’re saying, what it would mean if she just—tried to learn all the crazy stuff the company seems to think is important. If she treated it like an extension of the games she plays with Abed and Troy, sometimes, instead of some major overhaul of who she is.

That—that doesn’t seem crazy, does it? It’s just...coping. And doing so in a way that allows her to keep her job, which will allow her to keep her apartment and eat and pay for things and eventually begin to pay back her student loans, and maybe someday buy a newer car, or a house, or at least a bottle of shampoo that costs more than a dollar. 

“I—I could do that,” she says after a moment, nodding. The more she thinks about it, the more obvious it seems. She’ll just pretend. It doesn’t have to mean anything; she doesn’t have to _change_. It’ll be—it’ll be easy. A game. Simple. “I can do this. Yeah. I can do this.”

Abed leans forward on the kitchen table and then lifts his head to meet her eyes, still in character as her—what? Handler? She giggles, then sobers at his frown. “We always had faith in you. Check in with the Bureau weekly for updated mission parameters. Thank you, Agent Edison. That will be all.”

“Thank you,” she says, letting the game have its moment before she throws her arms around them both for a quick hug. “Seriously, you guys: thank you. I couldn’t do this without you both.”

Troy suddenly lights up, expression excited. “Does this mean we get FBI code names? Cause that’s _dope_.”

::

“The moment you set foot outside these doors, you are representing this company. Anything you wear, anything you say, anything associated with you will influence your success—or your failure. What we share with you we share out of compassion: we want you to be as successful as we know you can be. 

“But to do that, you need our help! We have been in the pharmaceuticals business for over 100 years. Our experience is wide and varied and has been distilled into the things we are going to teach you. These things are important, and should be important to you. 

“Welcome to your future.”

:: 

The first lesson is on appearance.

They start with a list of “not evers” for female representatives: no spandex; no bare midriffs; no exposed toes; no primary colors; no slogans or logos; no ‘unnatural’ hair colors; no facial piercings (1 pair earrings excepted); no exposed collarbones; no exposed tattoos; no exposed arms; no sandals; no “casual” wear; no cotton. 

Then there are the “guidelines”:

Skirts must fall no more than 2 inches above the knee when standing. Blouses must be tucked in and should not become untucked while doing work-related activities such as bending or reaching. Dress jackets must be tailored to fit appropriately. Dress shoes shall include a heel of no more than 3 inches but not less than 1 inch. Proper hosiery will be worn with any skirt or dress. Makeup is encouraged and will be minimal and tasteful. Dresses must be lined. Hair must be clean and worn in an appropriate style. Accessories, including bags, should be professional and neat.

Finally, they pair the new hires up and have them summarize what’s correct and what’s not with what their partner is wearing, which they then have to present to the rest of the orientation group. Annie (wearing her favorite sundress with violets on it and a green cardigan) is told nothing she is wearing is correct. Her backpack must go. Her locket must go. Her shoes must go. Their facilitator looks on and agrees, says Annie doesn’t look old enough to have a job. Someone laughs. The session moves to the next pair. 

Annie thinks of _The Bourne Identity_ , when Marie cuts her hair in the hotel bathroom and doesn’t flinch because it’s only hair. She’s a spy, and now Annie’s a spy, so she can do this. She has to do this.

::

The next lesson is listening. 

They get paired up with ‘graduated’ reps, who come in looking like an army of polished Stepford wives in matching skirt or pant suits and jewel toned tops and glossy pointed toe pumps. Annie’s partnered with Claire, whose blonde hair is swept up into an elegant French twist. 

They work through a practice situation where Annie has to pretend to be hesitant about the product and Claire convinces her to agree to the samples. Claire seems almost bored, confidently shooting down all Annie’s fumbled attempts to say no thank you. Then they switch, with Annie attempting to convince Claire. She’s only a few words in when Claire shakes her head and ends the dialogue. 

“No, see: you have to listen to what the client _isn’t_ saying. They’ll say whatever they think you want to hear, but it’s what’s missing that’s key. And don’t interrupt. Or say ‘actually.’ Or do that thing with your eyes like you’re trying not to cry. Again.”

Annie thinks of _Alias_ , when Sydney Bristow has dinner with her evil boss who killed her fiance and smiles at him across the table like everything is absolutely fine in the world, and she tries to keep her face as blank as Jennifer Garner's.

::

When she gets home, Troy is waiting for her. “How’d it go?” 

Annie drops her (not ever) backpack and kicks off her (inappropriate) shoes and collapses onto the futon with a groan. “This job is evil. And I’m a bad spy.”

“Uh oh: were you _made_?” Troy asks, voice a hissed whisper. “ Did they figure out you’re _undercover_? Do you need to flee the country now?”

“Um, no, Troy: I just don’t have the right clothes and apparently don’t know how to listen and never want to hear another thing about olfactory sores ever again.”

He shrugs and glances over at the blanket fort where Abed is clearly listening since the television volume has dropped since she got home. “No one has all the skills on day one, right? If you did they might know you were a _plant_. And that would be _bad_. You gotta blend in so you don’t get _made_.”

His wild spy inflections are enough to make Annie giggle and suddenly the day feels ridiculous rather than a failure, heavy and unbearable. “Right. Cause if I get made we’re absolutely fleeing the country. No take backs.”

Troy considers this. “Is Abed invited?”

“Duh _doy_. He’s the brains of this outfit, ya see?” She tries on her old timey gangster voice but Troy just rolls his eyes at it. 

“Okay, deal. If you get made, we all flee the country.” They do their ‘important agreement’ handshake, the one they use for roommate stuff and very rarely for emotion stuff. 

“Pizza will be here in twenty minutes,” Abed says as he comes out of the blanket fort. “And also we’re watching _Miss Congeniality_ tonight.” He heads directly into the kitchen and doesn’t wait for an answer. 

Troy leans in, voice soft. “He’s been planning this all day. I think he was worried about you.” He pauses, and then leans in again. “Also the pizza was my idea.”

Annie thinks about Abed and Troy and badass lady spies like Grace Hart, and maybe she cries, just a little—but in the happy way, the good way. 

::

The rest of orientation is kind of a blur: Annie wears her one interview suit every day; she digs out her only pair of pointy-toed heels; she bites her lip so she doesn’t ask questions; she listens and takes notes and memorizes the pamphlets and brochures and handouts. She watches, watches, watches. 

Claire seems to be Annie’s unofficial mentor, partnering with Annie for the practice exercises and learning sessions. Every time, she provides a list of critiques that feel like needle pricks ( _Don’t duck your chin; Keep your shoulders relaxed and not touching your earlobes; You raise your voice at the end of a statement, which makes you sound unsure; Don’t try to wheedle or whine; If you can’t list the side effects without whispering we’re going to get sued, like, a lot; Seriously, though, say ‘penis’ with me, right now_ ). But every time, the critiques seem to get more specific, less general. Which might be an improvement. Like she’s moving towards something, versus just flailing around in the dark. 

She learns to pitch her product, how to circumvent a soft ‘no’, how to soften a hard ‘no’, how to cajole— _professionally_ , how to project confidence, how to encourage interest in a product, how to discourage interest in her person. She learns how to answer questions in a way that won’t upset egotistical doctors and how to assert dominance over pushy office administrators and how to be firm and decisive in business matters. 

At night, she goes home and thinks of spies and adulthood and careers and bills. Her body hurts; her feet hurt; her _soul_ hurts. She’s tired but she hasn’t gotten fired and she’s learning and that has to mean something. It _has_ to.

::

On Fridays, there’s a mandatory happy hour for the trainees, hosted by the reps. Claire almost smiles when she greets Annie and it feels like a small success, all things considered. 

“What’ll you have?” she asks, and the lift of her eyebrow tells Annie it’s another test, and she considers the bar before her, and thinks of the study group and acting like someone you’re not.

“Scotch,” she says after a pause. “Neat.”

Claire just nods at the bartender, and slides a crisp bill across the bar when the drinks are delivered. She turns back to Annie with an intent look. “I’m going to be honest with you for a minute: I think you have potential. You’re smart, you’re driven, you’re attractive without being aggressive. But you’ve got to remember that this is a job, and you’re a professional. Anything else is a distraction.”

Annie tries to laugh nonchalantly, but it comes out sounding strangled. She wets her lips with her drink and tries not to flinch at the taste of it. She misses her friends, suddenly, desperately. It’s been five months, three weeks, and two days since their graduation and she knows everyone is busy moving onto Real, Adult Lives—but she also knows that they’re well on their way to falling out of touch, to disconnecting, to becoming nothing more than footnotes in the stories they’ll tell about the experience that was Greendale. 

It feels inevitable, and sad, and sour, and _serious_ in a way she knows is adult but is also complete bullshit. 

“What else is there?” she says instead, playing the part. 

Claire lifts her glass in a toast. “ _Exactly_ , Edison. What else is there. Now you’re getting it.”

She takes another sip, braces against the unfamiliar burn.

She thinks of Eva Green's character from _Casino Royale_ , how she looked Bond in the eye and did not crumble under the weight of all her lies, and she finishes her drink with a hard swallow before ordering another.

::

“You got a boyfriend?” Claire asks at the end of one of the training days in Annie’s second or third week. She is tapping her perfectly manicured nail on Annie’s trapper keeper and doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get out of the stifling training room. “If you don’t, make one up. Trust me: the Doctors you’d want to date know better, and the ones that don’t? Need to know you’re off limits.”

Annie treats Claire’s advice like homework: create a boyfriend. She starts by listing off random facts she will commit to memory, but then she realizes it’s been six months since she was seeing someone and the whole exercise gets a little … introspective.

He’s tall. Strong, but not like oily strong. Just...decently muscle-y. Artfully disheveled hair. Soulful eyes—blue? Good jaw. Smart, of course: bold, certain. Sense of humor, but not _silly_. Definitely a career man—not doctor, that’s dangerous—but maybe law? 

Oh. Oh, wait. 

_Fuck_.

::

“Um, Abed? Troy? Would one of you be willing to be my fake boyfriend?”

They both look up from the television, wearing the same questioning look. 

“Is this for the mission? Are you going to fall in love with me?” Abed asks, eyebrows pulled together. 

“No, Abed, I’m not going to fall in love with you—and no, my saying that isn’t ‘clinching this trope for certain’, okay? This is for work—for the mission, I guess. One of the other reps recommended having a fake boyfriend.”

Abed tilts his head, considering. “So imagine one.” He pauses, considers. “You did imagine one.” Another beat. “You thought about Jeff.” He looks at Troy and waggles his eyebrows. “So you figured we’d be safer targets for your unbridled lusts.”

“What?!” she half-shrieks. “Ew, _no_. No offence, but my unbridled lusts are none of your business. We’ve talked about this.”

Troy’s head is ping-ponging between her and Abed like he’s watching an Olympic matchup, and it makes her feel old and tired. “I think I would have remembered a conversation about _horses_ , Annie. _Blazing Saddles_ is required watching in this apartment.” He reaches back to do his handshake with Abed.

Her stress headache is getting worse, and her wine glass is empty, and she may scream. But, y’know, like an _adult_ with a _job_ would scream.

::

So, okay, maybe she _has_ thought about Jeff. 

But only because he is, empirically, attractive. Allegedly. According to women. Who have eyes. He’s also ridiculous and selfish and vain and a nightmare. And sure, sometimes she wonders what it would have been like if they’d actually—but it’s not like _that_ , not really.

It’s just—unrequited and unresolved tension. A hanging plot point. An unfilled promise. Or, at least, that’s how Abed would explain it. She doesn’t actually _want_ Jeff Winger, she just wants to know what all the fuss is about.

And, sure, maybe she has thought about it—about how she could text him, tell him to meet her at one of the nicer bars she’s gone to happy hour at; about how she would get there early and pick a good seat at the bar, order a scotch, stare at the television until she could feel the static behind her eyes. 

She’d see Jeff before he sees her: he’d walk in and scan the bar for Annie Edison, bright hopeful college graduate. His eyes would skim right over her once, twice, before skipping back to widen in surprise. There’d be something almost afraid in his eyes, which is good. He could handle a little bit of fear when it came to her, she thinks.

This is the central question she asks herself over and over again: what would he see? The little girl from his study group? The accomplished graduate from his alma mater? A friend? Or something strange and new? 

He’d look—like Jeff Winger, attorney at law. Overly polished and fussy, wearing an expensive suit and tired eyes. Susceptible to a drink and a question; no beating around the bush needed. And he’d slide onto the stool next to her and smile at her with that almost soft, almost suave little smirk she has catalogued a hundred times. A thousand. More.

And she’d tell him—this is where the fantasy gets a little rusty, a little warped—she’d say something like, “Jeff: I need you to listen to me. Really listen. Can you do that?” 

He’d say sure, and order a drink. Annie’d order another scotch, too, and she’d be able to see the acknowledgement on his face that she’s no longer sipping Appletinis or Cosmos or whatever other ridiculous cocktail he thinks girls should drink. 

And that burn across her tongue, that would give her the courage to tell him that she—what she wanted: a meaningless night with him. And he’d choke on his drink, pound a fist against his chest, look shocked and surprised and scared. 

She’d wait him out, let him realize she wasn’t the same sweet little Annie Edison who’d let him tell her lies about what he felt and or allowed that to override what she’d felt—she’d be brash and bold and confident. She’d tell him to really think about what he wanted since this would be his last chance. 

And she’d get to watch him consider it, watch him lay out arguments and counter-arguments and counter-counter-arguments in his head. It’s always been riveting in a way the Annie of a year ago adored but didn’t quite understand—Annie thinks she gets it, now.

And she’d get to watch him unravel. She’d get to see the moment he gave in, the moment he stopped pretending it was all one-sided, or silly, or just a game. That instant of weakness from Jeff Winger, that’s what she wanted—and then she’d let it fade to black. 

Because that’s what it was really about, at its core. Not sex, not romance, not heated makeouts on the steps of an asbestos-filled library—it was about Annie Edison getting _hers_ , and Jeff Winger getting over himself. 

But that’s not going to help her keep her job, so. She’s a badass lady spy: she’ll just say Troy’s her fake boyfriend. Easy.

::

Shirley’s eyebrows jump when she spots Annie crossing the restaurant for brunch. “Oh, my; you look so grown up, pumpkin!”

Annie glances down at her new pants suit and shrugs. It’s been a month. It’s not that different from what she’d usually wear, it’s just—black. And pants. And her hair is up. And she’s wearing heels because she has to break them in before Monday. So. 

“How’re you doing?” she asks after she’s arranged her coat and her purse. “Busy with the store?”

Shirley hems a little bit, looking embarrassed, before launching into a story about the supplier for her bread and how he keeps giving her extra baguettes. Somehow it has devolved into Shirley giving the guy heads of lettuce to “balance the books” which seems slightly suspect all around. 

When the waiter stops by to take their order, Annie orders a mimosa and toast. Shirley frowns in her peripheral but it’s really not that big a deal. She’s an adult, after all. Adults do toast for breakfast, sometimes.

“So how’s Ben? And the boys?” she asks instead, and now Shirley’s talking about getting them ready for school and how excited Elijah is for football practice, and how Ben is starting pre-K and is growing up too fast.

It’s easy. It’s simple and it’s easy and if Annie hates herself a little bit for refusing to let the topic ever land on _her_ , well. 

That’s easy, too. 

::

Her first paycheck feels like an accomplishment. She prints out the paystub and sets it on her desk and lets herself have five minutes to acknowledge the accomplishment. She has a job. It pays. She’s doing this: she’s making progress.

With this money, she can definitely make rent, and maybe afford brand name cereal, and actually put something into savings, or an emergency fund, or maybe even towards her student loans. She has _options_.

Then she makes the mistake of thinking about next month’s rent, about groceries and electricity and gas and the weird clicking sound her ignition has been making when she starts her car and all those lovely options just...disappear. 

She’s tired and tense and ready to snap and, well—work is hard. Memorizing drug pamphlets is exhausting. Practicing introductions with the other trainees is mind-numbing. Work is demanding, that’s all. And she needs to keep this job so she can keep those options. 

It’s been a month since she accepted the job and agreed to learn how to—how to be an effective saleswoman, including all the peripherals of such a role. And they keep telling her that she’s going places, and there’s always a transition period and it’ll get easier with time.

She can do this—she has to do this. 

::

“Annie?” Troy asks her a week later, when he finds her sorting their recyclables. “Are you okay?”

She looks up from the cans and tries not to frown when she realizes he’s holding the two bowls that have been missing from the kitchen for the last four days. “Oh—yeah, I’m fine,” she says, finally, when the silence has stretched to awkward lengths. 

“Are you sure, though?” he asks, setting the bowls on the countertop and leaning against the fridge. “Cause it seems like maybe you’re not?” His voice goes high on the last word, face scrunched up like a question mark. 

Annie focuses on flattening the cereal boxes, tugging the flaps apart carefully to avoid cardboard cuts. There’s something growing in the back of her mind that she’s struggling to ignore, a roiling discontent with his questions and the expectations and _everything_. “What—what makes you say that?”

Troy crosses his arms and drops his chin to his chest. “You just—you used to come home and yell at us about dirty dishes, and leave your bobby pins everywhere and roll your eyes when Abed refused to watch _New Girl_. But now you come home and...don’t do those things.”

Annie reaches for the sponge in the sink and starts scrubbing the counters. She can feel the prickle of tears, but refuses to cry because she’s half afraid if she starts she will never, ever stop. “I’m...sorry I stopped yelling about dishes?” she manages. There’s a spot of syrup on the counter that refuses to come up, and she rubs at it furiously. 

“Annie.” Troy says, and he sounds so much older than the boy she went to high school with and the boy she lives with and the boy who still doesn’t understand how satellite television works. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but—” he pauses. “I hope you know we’re here for you. We’re your friends. And more importantly, your roommates. And also your study buddies.”

“I thought ‘study buddies’ was vetoed very early on,” she says. “By you _and_ Jeff, if I’m not mistaken.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shrug, a full bodied motion that seems to leave him draped even more dramatically against the fridge, his wide shoulders knocking magnets askew and disrupting the chore chart she’d pinned up a lifetime ago. “Abed’s doing a retrospective and thinks it’ll catch on due to nostalgia for the classic shenanigans of our earlier adventures.”

“Oh. Okay then,” she says. She throws the sponge in the sink and reaches for the abandoned bowls. Troy lays a warm hand over hers, cautious but kind. 

“We are, though, you know. Your buds. So if you do want to talk, or shout, or, um, decommission all your thoughts? We’re here.”

Annie nods. She bites her lip and nods and rinses out the bowls and doesn’t let herself consider the strange panic clamoring in her chest.

::

She goes out for a drink with Britta a few days later and orders a sidecar because she likes the fancy glass and the curl of orange peel. Britta makes a face at it and asks for extra olives in her vodka soda. 

“So how’s the new career treating you?” she asks without preamble, chasing an olive around the rim of her glass. “Showing them how to administrate righteously?” 

Annie’s laugh sounds suspiciously fake, so she takes another sip and shrugs. “Absolutely I am. Wouldn’t do it any other way! How about you—how’s psychology today?”

Britta snorts. “Oh, y’know how it is. Psychology is just everywhere you wanna be! Like _Jeopardy!_ ”

“I think that’s the Visa slogan,” Annie offers. She wraps the orange curl around her finger.

“Oh. I thought it was Vanna White’s thing?” Britta’s frowning at the bar; Annie can see the crinkle of her nose between the bottles of gin in the mirror. It’s familiar and strange, all at the same time. 

“That’s _Wheel of Fortune_.”

“Ugh, _whatever_. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, so: did you hear Pierce is getting sued by Greendale? Again, apparently?”

::

Abed and Troy keep up with “monthly mission check-ins”, which feel more and more silly. She wants to tell them thank you for helping her, but it’s also not really a bit anymore. It’s life and it’s just how it is.

Abed looks worried, steepling his fingers as he watches her from across the table. “You’re in too deep, Agent,” he says in that voice. She’s come to hate that voice. “You’ve lost perspective.”

She wants to put her head on the table. She wants to cry, or scream, or something that isn’t adulting. She wants to throw back her head and laugh. She wants a glass of scotch. 

“You need to think about what brought you here,” he says.

“Hey!” she says. “I know what brought me here.”

“Do you?” he presses, eyebrows comically high. 

“ _Do I_?” she hears herself repeat, voice thin and pitched dangerously close to ‘shrieking’. “This is my job, Abed. I’m doing my job. It’s more than _you’re_ doing.”

Troy recoils back like Annie took a swing at them, and she feels a flicker of remorse. But then Abed’s tsking and shaking his head and she’s definitely going to scream. 

“I have a job. I keep us in line. I keep this whole world in line. You want to know what would happen if I stopped doing my job?” he asks. There’s a dramatic pause before he points a finger gun at her. “Chaos.”

“And do you know what would happen if I didn’t do _my_ job?” she asks; her voice is so, so mean. “We’d be evicted. We’d starve. One of those feels more pressing, don’t you think?”

Abed frowns, like she changed the rules, and she stands and pushes past him into her room where she can close the door and lay face down on her bed and ache and think and be alone. 

She thinks of spies, of not knowing right from wrong, of the darkness at the edges of the frame, of not looking back. 

::

She’s not that surprised when she finds Abed sitting at the kitchen table the next morning. He’s wearing one of his suits—the grey one, from Shirley’s wedding, it looks like—and has his hands folded on the table in front of him. 

“Agent Edison,” he greets her. For half an instant she wonders about claiming she’ll be late for work but realizes he’s taken her routine into account and has laid out her breakfast and lunch options for her. 

“Abed,” she says instead. 

He cocks his head to the side, considering, before he speaks again. “You were upset yesterday.”

“I was,” she agrees. Lying to Abed is never worth the effort, and she’s already so, so tired. 

“Why?” 

“Right now I’m the only one of us with a job. With a _paying_ job. And I know we were—I know I was pretending, for a little while, but I can’t do that anymore. I can’t keep acting like it’s all fun and games when it’s _not_. It’s real life. I—I work in pharmaceutical sales, and I have to keep my job, and this isn’t—it isn’t—”

Abed’s head tilts the other direction, attention focused and blunt. “It isn’t what?”

“I should be working at a hospital, or a clinic, or _helping people_ but instead all I get to do is drive around talking to doctors about our new line of drugs and give them notepads and memorize lists of disgusting side effects. But this is what adults do, right? They work. They _work_. They have jobs and get paid so they can keep buying Lucky Charms for breakfast and keep their lights on and not have to worry about living out of their car.”

He blinks and doesn’t respond. The silence is another weight, another burden. 

“So that’s what I’m doing, Abed. I’m doing what I have to do.”

Abed doesn’t reply, and she doesn’t want him to reply. She feels like the Annie of senior year of high school, reaching and reaching and reaching, believing the next test or the next pill will make everything okay. But she’s not addicted to anything and she’s not a danger to herself; she’s just—sad, and tired, and frustrated. She wants to be fun Annie, carefree Annie, but that Annie couldn’t make it through orientation, couldn’t survive a day at this job, so— 

She gathers up everything she needs for her day, and pauses at the threshold. Thinks about Greendale, and growing up, and growing old. 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I’m just—sorry.”

She shuts the door behind her, carefully, and goes to work. 

::

When she gets the text to come save Greendale, she hesitates. 

_Is this a new mission?_ she sends to the Apartment 303 group chat. She wonders if it's too late.

It’s Troy who finally responds with a smiley face and _only if u choose to accept it_.

 _Yes_ , she thinks. She does.


End file.
